when you stand with the men,
when you love, and do not despise,
and peel off Brother Ivan’s moist socks—
his feet two toads, bumpy, swollen,
earth-smelling—his nails snaggled, pitted,
sandpapery, little buttons, little moons—
you dip his feet, wash, cradle, pat dry,
he says oh—and all of it—the water,
the soft pink towel, his pursed mouth,
skin on skin—is holy, holy, holy—